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Best Poems Written by Carol Mays

Below are the all-time best Carol Mays poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Secrets In a Storm

Secrets sail on the whirling winds,
along with the dark and driven clouds.
Carried aloft with litter and leaves
are invisible, partly submerged longings:

to hitch a ride on the primal rawness,
to abandon all things set and tethered,
to project oneself toward the unknown,
while thriving through the natural chaos.

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To a Raven

Fearless Raven, soaring in
the rich, dark chasm—
that world of shadows, echoes,
cliffs and crags chaotic,
the void of subtle stirrings in
a quintessential midnight—
Make some room for me
on your old, straight wings.
I, too, need to sense
lightning piercing stardust,
galvanizing mountains,
stoking distant thunder.
Let me catch a breath
of your pure, primeval air,
exotic and unshackling
latent, raw, unbounded.

Details | Carol Mays Poem

Hidden Worlds

Some things I think are overhead
Are also underneath my bed
And this is true of you, as well.
So mark my words now, as I tell:
Beneath the clothing bins we store,
Under the stairs and basement floor,
Beneath the tracks of snails and slugs,
The homes of chipmunks, moles, and bugs,
Beneath the cracks where waters run
Through garnet and magnesium,
Below the mantle—an iron core, 
More mantle, crust, then ocean floor,
With thermal vents, volcanic glint,
Turtles, whales, and tiny shrimp,
Beneath the driving winds and rain,
We find the stratosphere again.
And deeper still, the moon’s bright face,
Then stars and wonders strewn through
   space.
So maybe now my claim is clear;
We rest upon a little sphere, and
“Up” and “Down” make sense alone
To Beings who are stuck at home.

Details | Carol Mays Poem

A Fairyland Escape

The sky was yellow, with sparkling beams
in iridescent gold
reflected on the pointed hat
of an elf, two centuries old.

The hostess of the hour was sweet
in a robe of mismatched dyes.
She entertained with merely this--
a kiss in her root beer eyes.

The placemats were of baby fern,
woven in intricate green,
and laughter was heard like the tinkling of bells,
near the banks of an ebony stream.

I boarded a raft for an underground cave,
which was carved in a spiral pattern.
The subterranean symphony hall
was draped in coral satin.

At the end of the course was a water-slide
in hues of ultraviolet,
with children bouncing up and down.
They prevailed upon me to try it.

Though some might want to interpret this,
myself, I'm in no hurry
to analyze such a sweet retreat,
which woke me without a worry.

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Trick-Or-Treating

The sweet-sour scent of waning hay
drifts to town from nearby fields,
pleasing all walkers with an edgy peace.

While autumn gusts enliven shadows,
the wavering moon turns sheets to ghosts,
and disguises reveal diverse fancies.

The mind evokes bewitching specters
cavorting like bats on their nightly hunts,
quickening the pace of parent and child.

Spooky music beckons from porches,
conjuring up faux frights and terrors,
as diffuse mysteries tug at innocence.

Details | Carol Mays Poem

A Presence In the Forest

Somewhere in an old-growth forest,
a woman smoothly moves amidst
shadows of the pines and hardwoods.
Her mossy gown is verdant green,
her hair twinkles with mica and
her soul, deep as a midnight sky,
with remote star clusters beaming.
She tends the ruins of an ancient inn
and a bed of ferns and roses.
Many a nomad, passing through,
is revived by her grace and goodness.
Though we can't lay hands on her,
she wanders free within our grasp,
For the ancient inn beguiles us still
in the labyrinths of our minds.

Details | Carol Mays Poem

October Fest

Homes so recently abandoned
for Sunday swims and picnics
have become indoor respites
from the restless chill of change.

Secure, still days have vanished,
with hazy meadows humming.
Fireflies have met their end,
replaced with jack-o'-lanterns.

Now forewarning breezes,
stealthy, crisp, and vibrant,
pierce preoccupations,
uncovering reckless impulses.

Now uncanny images,
voices of chance and charm,
bide their ghostly time
to tease mortals hitherto content.

Darts and dashes of circumstance,
figures of flitting moments,
are creatures mysteriously born,
skipping towards certain death.

So what, if the end is approaching;
the witches' brew is bubbling--
the whispers of all moans and laughs,
the collage of dreams and desires.

Now is the ecstasy of flinging
one's fate to the unrefined choir--
the discordant sounds and initiatives
of many spirits and springs.

Grinning gourds and goblins
bless the annual surprise--
this primal burst of forces
that refuse once more to be quenched.

Details | Carol Mays Poem

A Plea To the Butterflies

Spontaneous ladies,
embellished by eons,
illusive, enchanting,
with black velvet "eyes,"
and fringed yellow cloaks,
sparkling with diamonds
at midnight and dawn,
Oh, fly me away from
my grey-flooded days,
from the four-lane race
and the file drawer maze.
Fly me away from 
the chain of the clock
and the sink of necessities.
Bring me in spirit
to magical rendezvous,
to dance by the glint
of the moon on the marsh,
hiding from fireflies,
nudging antennas.

Details | Carol Mays Poem

Broken Horses

We long for relationships
that know no borders,
in which hearts can roam free,
frolicking with each other,
and galloping at will
through fields and streams
in broad daylight,
and spontaneous affections
can nuzzle unrestrained.

Yet on our humble ranch,
it is the broken horses
that we so often ride.
Connections become curtailed
that once headed for the horizon,
by trial and error taught
to shield certain wounds
and mind necessary fences,
in many a peculiar pasture.

Details | Carol Mays Poem

The Wheel In September

I've startled a frog, who leaps in flashes.
He and a grasshopper zig-zag away.
The lawn whispers mildly, in tune with the sun,
Yet something's amiss--the air is unsettled.
Squirrels and I stash away seeds,
salvaged from spent, rain-ravaged beds.
Bees are now torpid and cling to the mums.
Bedraggled zinnias give up the ghost.

What becomes of the Grim Reaper's harvest,
of creatures who cannot withstand the strain?
The mystery hides in an infinite point--
the one in the center of The Great Hub--
the crux of a myriad transformations.